


ISO: A Boyfriend

by Nimravidae



Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Christmas Party, Class Differences, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Former/Referenced Martha Washington/George Washington, George Is A Sugar Daddy For The Weekend, Homophobia, M/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: George is in desperate need of a date after he informed his mother he'd be bringing someone home. So he turns to a place where someone can find anything: The Internet.Luckily, Benjamin Tallmadge needs cash and doesn't have a single holiday plan.





	ISO: A Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [narcissablaxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/gifts).



ISO: A man willing to pretend to be the romantic partner of anoth-   
ISO: A man willing to play the par-   
ISO: A man who would be willing to pretend to be my significant other for two days (December 25th, and 26th) in Virginia. I will provide lodging, transportation fees, food, and compensation. Please contact me before next Saturday (December 14th).

 

George plugs in his contact information and his initials, and then, after a moment of consideration, removes all but an email he rarely uses and his last initial. The first response comes within the hour, an image attached with a poorly spelled message asking him to “drop the pretints.” The image loads and George immediately snaps it back shut, closing his laptop sharply for good measure. 

This was a mistake. A horrifying, awful, mistake. Although, perhaps the first mistake was answering the phone for his mother at all. Though, in his defense he hadn’t realized it was her until it was much too late. No contact between the two of them, say for the scheduled flowers he has delivered to his old home three times a year. Her birthday, mothers day, Christmas, rinse, repeat. She never responded to them, he never expected her to, but have Lawrence died and Betty got married, he figured it was something of a son-like duty was supposed to be doing. 

Not that she thought of him much like a son. Not since he came out, of course. A gay child? Not under her roof, not sharing her name. 

So the number, Virginia area code and all-together half-familiar, needless to say, was not in his contacts fifteen years later. He’d picked up, his usual clipped business voice announcing: “Washington.” 

“Good,” she’d crooned, “Betty was right, you haven’t changed it. I was wonder if you’d changed your mind and would like to join your sister, her husband, and the rest of your  _ family  _ for Christmas.”

His mother had droned on a little more, something about how this could be the last one for any one of them, and how all she wants is her family back together so if George has changed his mind-- It was only the second time she said it that George realized what she meant by ‘changed his mind’.

He had bristled immediately and that temper that earned him one too many places in anger management classes reared its angry head. “I’ll have you know that my significant other and I would be honored to attend Christmas.”

The rest of the conversation was a wrathful and heart-pounding blur of her trying to walk back her invitation and him refusing to allow her to. Bad decision after bad decision, landing him in desperate search of a man to poise as his partner just to incense her. Which has, thus, lead him to this position.

In front of his laptop, the blurry image of some stranger's penis in his inbox. 

From his pocket, his phone pings. One new email.

He closes his eyes, and curses himself.

It takes nearly  _ until  _ Saturday for George to find someone who didn’t find his posting either incredibly threatening or a poorly postured invitation for anonymous sex in exchange for money. There were only two promising options, which was, admittedly, two more than George was assuming he would get. One was a woman, whom George summarily responded to with a brusque thank you, but that is not what he was looking for. 

Leaving behind one last email, from some professional-looking email, first initial-dot-what-looks-like-part-of-a-last-name at gmail-dot-com. The icon of an attachment made his stomach sink and he very nearly deleted it off the cuff, but, swallowing his anxiety, he just clicked open.

 

_ “Hello sir,  _

_ I am responding to your advertisement looking for a man to poise as your partner for two days. My name is Benjamin Tallmadge, I’m a 24 year old graduate student at NYU interested in your offer if you are still looking for someone to fill the position. Attached is my resume and cover letter, I can provide references and my CV upon request. _

_ Thank you for your consideration, _

_ Benjamin Tallmadge” _

 

Sure enough, George clicks his attachments and there they are. A full resume which, though hardly impressive is incredibly professional. The cover letter at the top is clear and concise as well. It reads of everything his family would want, with the only thing keeping them from begrudgingly accepting him being his sexuality. Objectively, he’s perfect. 

George responds to him that night, asking if he’d like to meet somewhere public to discuss his proposition. In the morning, Benjamin Tallmadge’s response is sitting neatly at the top of his unread emails. He suggests days he’s free and effusively thanks George for the consolidation, again. 

A few more back and forths, and they agree on a cafe a short ways from the campus, and George figured nearer to where Benjamin lived. George arrived a sharp fifteen minutes early, eyes skating around for someone who looked like they were waiting for another. The only person alone was a handsome young man, one hand buried in honey-blonde hair, the other holding open some thick book. He gripped a pen between his teeth as he read, full mug by his elbow looking entirely untouched. 

He was striking, in a button-up and sweater-vest and it took George a moment or two to remember that he was here to actually meet someone. Frowning, he examines the menu instead. Once he’s placed his order (whatever the house blend is, cream, two sugars. For here, please) he hovers a little around the sides to wait. 

There’s nothing for ten minutes but scalding-hot coffee and the in-and-out scurry of a constant Saturday winter crowd. Once his watch begins to tick minute by minute past when they were supposed to meet, with no word on his frequently-checked email, he begins to think he’s been stood up. 

He scowls into his mug.  _ So much for professionalism,  _ he seethes, sipping at his now-lukewarm coffee and vowing to leave the minute he’s finished.

A few tables down from where he’s seated waiting, that same handsome young man drops his pen to the table with a sharp, and hushed, “mother _ fucker.”  _ Interest piqued, George watches him check his watch and swear again and straighten up entirely, looking around near-panicked from corner to corner of the establishment. 

He hangs his head after a moment of frustration and wriggles his phone out of his pocket and begins typing and George comes to a very sudden realization. Taking his coffee and folding his peacoat over his arm, George approaches. 

“Mr. Tallmadge?” 

His head snaps up, sharp. “Hello, you must be Mr. Washington,” Benjamin slides out of the chair, sticking out his hand. His handshake is firm and warm. “I’m so sorry, I meant to be on the look-out for anyone coming it, but I came here early and tried to get some work done and,” he pauses and looks down at his book propped open by the pen, “I got a little caught up, as you can tell.”

“It’s fine.” And it was, really George was more concerned with not being completely abandoned with no prospects for his family dinner. He gestures to the seat across the little table. “May I?”

Benjamin responds as he sits back down, “of course, please. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I figured you would have more for me, to be quite honest, Mr. Tallmadge. I’ve taken the liberty of considering a fair compensation package for your two days. If you wish to fly to Virginia of course,” he clears his throat, suddenly aware of where they are and how public the setting. He lowers his voice immediately. “If you wish to fly to Virginia, I would cover your tickets, baggage, food costs, transportation to and from the airport. In addition to anything else during the trip itself, and this would, of course, be separate from your actual payment itself.” 

“Which, uh, if you don’t mind me asking…” Benjamin trails off with a wave of his hand and, for a moment, George is fixated quite entirely on his fingers. Elegant. Lovely.

Ah. “My mistake, of course. May I?” Benjamin hands him the pen and George scribbles his offer on the edge of the napkin and slides it over. 

Benjamin’s face collapses and they both speak at the same time. George says: “I’m willing to negotiate” at the same moment Benjamin chokes out: “For two days?”

“Oh no, this is per day. Should you wish to cancel this arrangement early, I’d pay you the sum of however many days you were there and, of course, pay for your return trip.”

That elegant hand comes to his face in shock. “I don’t know what to say.”

George shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “As I said, I am more than willing to negotiate, up to a certain degree of course.”

“This is fine, trust me. It’s… well,” Benjamin’s face suddenly falls and again his eyes (blue and sharp) narrow at the amount George carefully penned on the edge of the napkin. “What is it  _ exactly  _ that you expect me to do for you, sir?”

He feels his own face heat. “Nothing of that sort. I have no illusions that I will ever be invited to another family gathering following this one, and if I do not seize this singular opportunity to show my mother that I am, in fact, homosexual, she will continue to attempt to persuade myself and everyone within her point of contact that, at age forty-six, am confused and will soon be settling down with a woman to have children. I made an error in accepting her invitation but now, I must. And I must come accompanied with a date. 

If you wish, I can acquire separate hotel rooms for the two of us, different rental vehicles. Under no circumstances will we be having sexual intercourse with one another. I am not offering to pay you for sex. All you must do is attend dinner on Christmas Day, all while pretending that we are a happy couple.”

He ends that neatly and quietly and sits back up, lips pressed in a thin line.

“So, may I ask the obvious question?”

George nods and Benjamin continues: “Is that really why do you need someone to do this?”

He opts for the truth. “This is the first Christmas I’ll be spending with my family in sixteen years, since I came out as gay, and when my mother asked me if I had changed my mind about my sexuality, I mistakenly told her that I was in a committed relationship with another man, who I would be glad to bring to Christmas.”

Benjamin hums, nodding seriously. “If you would like to hire me, sir, I would be more than happy to assist you. But I think we should meet again, dinner or something. For y’know. Practice.” He takes his pen back and scribbles something else on the napkin, sliding it back. “And to work out all the details.”

They talk, for nearly two more hours, and settle on a time and place to meet for dinner. Though, it’s hardly been a day when Benjamin (“call me Ben, please”) insisted on getting lunch, then coffee, then another and another.They meet nearly daily between the end of the coffee and their intended dinner, going over as much as they can as they try to cram a quarter decade of history into ten days. 

Ben is early when he gets there as well. It goes late, again, but by the time they’re finished George is reciting the same information over and over again in his mind. Benjamin Francis Tallmadge, they met two and a half years ago at the Met. He loves historical dramas and Shakespeare plays. Their first date was at the cafe in the American Wing, tea and sharing a slice of cake. 

Their first kiss was on his stoop a week and a half later. Benjamin Francis Tallmadge, he has two older brothers and two younger brothers. Benjamin Francis Tallmadge, he lives with three other men in a cramped apartment near campus, Nate, Caleb, and Abe. Benjamin Francis Tallmadge, he’s from Setauket, on Long Island. His father is a reverend and his mother teaches third grade. Benjamin Francis Tallmadge, he’s allergic to bananas, but he eats them anyway. 

_ Benjamin Francis Tallmadge,  _ he reminds himself as he walks him home. It’s the opposite direction of his place, but he figures he could use the cold air to clear his mind. And, well, there are trains. They stop in front of a worn-down looking building, Benjamin twirling his keys on his finger and looking at George from the steps. 

“The spot of our fake first kiss,” he hums, toeing along the cement. 

“After our fake dinner date.” George responds, hands in his pockets as he regrets not bringing gloves for the third time already. 

Ben nods, making a soft little noise in the back of his throat. “We should practice. If we want this to look real.” 

“I thought that’s what dinner was, ensuring that we knew enough to create a convincing ill-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish, because Ben had lurched forward, pressing his lips (slightly chapped with winter, but still warm) against George’s own. He wasn’t sure what to do at first but stand there, hands whipping out from his pockets and hovering over Ben’s side. Ben’s own fingers, responsibly gloved, curl into the front of George’s jacket, holding him close and firm and not yielding at all until George gets the message.

Practice. 

George kisses him back, one his hover hands moving up to the cup the back of his head. Ben steps down a stair, letting George loom over him, press down to kiss him with more intent, more sincerity. Ben’s teeth catch George’s lower lip and, in George’s startled response, Ben slips his tongue past.

It’s warm, nearly on scorching, and George counters with his own, until they’re sliding slick and hot, only pulling away after a moment to pant, harsh, a scant inch from one another. Ben licks his own lips. “In case there’s mistletoe,” is all he says. “Night, George. See you at the airport?”

“Yeah,” is all he says. “Yeah.”

**_###_ **

 

They don’t talk about the practice. For once George is early, tapping his foot from his position crammed into the most annoyingly miniscule airport chairs known to man. He’s dressed as nicely as he’s willing to go for the flight, the same outer layer of black peacoat, monotony of color broken up the line of his scarf. He checked his watch again. The flight didn’t start boarding for nearly half an hour, but George had overcompensated for holiday traffic and had been sitting there for a solid hour already.

His mind churns over the possibility, once more, that Benjamin simply won’t come. That he’ll be alone with an empty seat beside him and no excuses, no reasons, no calls. It paints that particular image time and time again, until, of course, Ben drops himself right at his side. His carry-on is slung over one shoulder, and he’s already stripped off his jacket and scarf, gloves hanging out the pocket. 

He’s wearing the same sort of smart sweater and tie he’d been wearing in the coffee shop and his hair looks like it might be freshly cut, though it’s hard to tell, since it looks pretty damp still. “It’s snowing like crazy out there,” he says, running his finger through his hair. “Do you think we’ll be delayed?”

George shakes his head. “I asked about that an hour ago, they said it wasn’t likely. But the storm system moving in faster than anticipated, so who knows.” 

Ben hums, eyes scouring for a place to plug in his phone. “Supposed to get a total white-out over Christmas. Good thing we’re going to your family instead of mine, huh babe?”

The pet name sounded smooth off Ben’s lips but it stuck George funny. His nose crinkled without his permission and Ben cocked a brow. “Not good? Honey? That’s a little more Virginia, right?” 

“Is this necessary?” 

“It’s your family I’m trying to both impress and pretend a relationship for, George Eugene Washington.” 

He can’t help but roll his eyes. Ben’s ridiculously charming and in a way George is finding more and more that he’s incredibly fond of. Whether or not his mother would be so accepting is another thing. “That isn’t my middle name,” He warns, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

Beside him, Ben smirks and pulls out the book he’d been studying those ten days ago they met, just a few more pages deep. He’s much better at this than George is, leaning towards him and letting their elbows brush just slightly. Like they’ve naturally been around each other for a while. George had assured him they wouldn’t need to be get comfortable touching, as his family’s relationship with public displays of affection was distant and uncomfortable strangers. Much like their relationship with affection at all. 

But that didn’t stop Ben from insisting, going so far as to squeeze George goodbye, or lean over tables to fix his hair or tie. Maybe Ben just liked seeing George flush, watching him fidget under attentions he certainly was unsure how to handle. 

Though, nothing was as bad as the kiss the other night. Well, not to say it was bad. No, George hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Ben’s lips had been slightly chapped but warm and welcoming nonetheless. His neat and narrow waist fit perfectly in the curve of his hands, his lips slotted perfectly against his own. 

His tongue had been searing, like molten glass, and George hadn’t been kissed like that in a very, very long time. 

It takes all his willpower not to touch his lips, right there, next to Ben in the middle of this packed airport. Luckily, he doesn’t have to sit there in gloomy silence for long. They call first class, and George stands, straightening his jacket and collecting his things. Ben looks up from his book. “You’re eager. They’ve got to board like half the plane first,” he says, before looking back down. 

All George follows up with is: “Check your ticket, Benjamin."

The groan is audible and Ben shuts the book over his finger and stands. George notices him, out of the corner of his eye, scratching at the frayed edge of his backpack, pulling at the corner of his sleeve. Luxury, it seems, is like an allergy. He’s never seen the young man so ill at ease, say for the first few minutes of their first meeting, he supposes. And when he read George’s payment plan. 

He’d mentioned something about five brothers and four bedrooms. Scholarships at Yale, this one at NYU. 

“Frequent flier,” he says by way of explanation, opting to say nothing else on the matter. Ben makes a noise like he doesn’t believe him.

“What do you do anyway, you never said,” he points out, buckled into his window seat and kicking his bag under the seat.

Oh, well, he supposes he hadn’t. He’d been focused more on trying to know Ben. Afterall, he’s fairly certain his mother wouldn’t deign to acknowledge anyone George brought home if they weren’t under fifteen years younger than him, successful, elegant, and a woman. “I’m the CFO of company that makes protection software for banking institutions.” 

“What’s the name?” 

George closes his eyes, lets his head rest against the back of his chair. “You won’t know it.”

“I might.”

George tells him. Ben doesn’t know. He’s quiet for a few more moments, the only sound being the occasional creak of the seat and the sound of fabric shifting. “Feel free to not answer this,” Ben starts, voice pitching into a hushed whisper that usually indicates he’s speaking of their arrangement in public. George doesn’t point out he obviously was not given a choice in answering the question as to his companies name. “Feel free to not answer this, but why did you hire me anyway?”

He matches Ben’s pitch, tilting his head and letting his eyes slip open. Ben’s not looking at him, for once. “You were the only applicant to meet the qualifying criteria and not attach either a photograph of himself either shirtless, or a photograph of his penis.” It earns a huff of laughter. 

But it doesn’t last. “I mean why do you even need to hire someone to pretend to be your boyfriend? You’re obviously loaded, you’re not an asshole all the time and you’re, y’know.” He gestures and George figures it’s probably some reiteration of the whole ‘loaded’ bit. 

Once again, honesty is the appropriate policy. “I work. A lot and on weekends often. Dating isn’t so much my business anymore.” 

Ben makes a sound, low in his throat. He’s quiet for a little while longer, tilting his head back towards the window. 

It’s not a very long flight from New York to Richmond, and, after the brief stint of conversation, Ben returned to the book he’d been reading. But, of course, only for a couple minutes before he started to look a little green around his ears. 

A turbulent bump made him slam it shut. “Alright,” he huffed, stuffing it back away. “We should go over it more. Are we meeting anyone at the airport?”

“I’m renting a car. Where did we meet?”

“American Wing at the MET, I was there because I like to work on homework there. You were there because you were bored and had a meeting in town. Our first date?”

“First sincere date or coffee at the cafe?”

“What do I study?” 

“Something about literature.” 

Ben scoffs, “Close enough. My answer to what you do is mainly something with computers.”

George hummed, and Ben asked his second question: “Our first kiss?” And it was back again. Rushing forward and slamming him in the gut. The ice of the wind cutting through the warmth radiating from the nearness of Ben’s body. The taste of his tongue in his mouth. The press of lips against his own. His hand, cupping the back of his head. 

His mouth went immediately dry and he eyed the flight attendants readying to start delivering drinks. He should add whiskey to that. Or wine. “Your stoop,” he says, flat. 

Ben stares at him for a moment too long. “It’ll be fine,” he says with finality. 

George doesn’t believe him. 

The flight is turbulent, and George feels the lurching in his stomach like a distant omen. 

They shoot questions and trivia back and forth occasionally for the rest of the short flight, George offers a little more details on his family. He skates around Lawrence though, unsure of how to even broach the topic of his late brother.

Though, as little as he spoke of Lawrence between his death and George’s icing out, it’s not like anyone would be surprised. When they landed, they weren’t speaking. Not for any particularly malicious or wrathful reason. It was just a quiet. Likely because Ben was a perfect stranger still. Despite all George knew about him, he was still, well, new. 

“Why did you take this,” he asks, eyeing the directions towards baggage claim. “Answer my posting?”

“Needed money and an excuse not to go home. My friends told me it was a stupid decision, which is why I insisted on meeting you at that coffee shop. The woman behind the counter was a friend of mine.”

“Smart. What were they concerned about?”

George has an obvious answer in mind, but he lets Ben shrug. “That you’d skin me alive and eat my liver or something.” 

“Were you ever?”

“Concerned you’d skin my alive and eat my liver?” A woman wearing a camel jacket and faux-diamond earrings looks at them, shocked and sickened. Ben scowls and George finds it strangely charming, even if the topic was repulsive. “Not after I met you, no.” 

George pauses, watching the luggage start coming. “What does your bag look like?”

Ben picks up his backpack by the handle, gesturing. George peers out at the luggage carousel. “I don’t see any that look like that.”

“I mean this is my only bag.” 

He straightens his shoulders and says: “Oh.” His own bag came, sleek and black with striped blue tag quickly identifying it. He heaves it up and rolls it behind him, towards the rental service. This is a foolish idea, stupid and childish and it only sinks in that it isn’t going to work once George is holding the keys and staring at the driver's seat. Ben, peering over the top of the sensible four-door. This isn’t going to work.

Ben took both George’s luggage and his own to the trunk but it isn’t going to work. They’re going to see right through this poorly constructed ruse and George would be left not only ousted once more, but thoroughly humiliated. 

His hands are numb, stuck holding the key while Ben’s lips move. Oh.

Oh he’s speaking. 

“You okay?” Ben asks, likely for a second or third time by now. 

“Sorry,” Is George’s response. He unlocks the doors. “Caught in thoughts as to what we should do next. We need to go to the hotel and check-in. I got us one room with two beds, if that is acceptable. If not, I can easily acquire a second.”

“Are you going to kill me in my sleep?” Ben picks at his nails as he asks.

“No.”

He looks out the window next. “Then I think we’ll be fine in the same room. Unless you sleepwalk, I guess.”

George turns his eyes to the road, lips curving down. “You’re very trusting, aren’t you.”

He doesn’t look up but he can feel Ben’s eyes on the side of his head. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust you? I mean, besides the fact that you put up an advertisement looking for some guy to travel with you cross-state in exchange for the kind of money high-class escorts make?” 

When George stays quiet, Ben continues: “You’re not creepy, you’re not weird. I’m intrigued by your story, I really need the money, and you’re--I said all this on the plane, George. Maybe I am being too trusting but also I feel like I could probably take you.” 

Now that makes George glance to the side, brow arching. He’s got a solid six inches on Ben, maybe more, plus a couple dozen pounds. Ben smirks back at him and goes back to staring out the window. It takes a moment, but Ben eventually tells him, “If you want, we could go down to one.”

“One?”

“One bed.”

His hands tighten as that kiss flares up for the third time since the plane. “It won’t be necessary.”

**_###_ **

In the end, it’s absolutely necessary. At least, that is what a stricken woman informs him as he huffs his way through the check-in procedure. And, of course, it's likely George's fault for taking the leisurely way back from the airport, stopping for lunch just to practice more of being with Ben in public.

“I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” she says, tucking another strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It looks like we overbooked on the doubles and rn out. We have a single prepared for you, however. And, if need be, we can send a cot up for your brother--”

“Boyfriend,” Ben corrects, a little too quickly, shifting his bag and bumping his hip against George’s. “And it’s fine,” the next part is directed at George, “I told you a single would be fine. I know your RLS acts up but I’m  _ used  _ to it.” And then back to the woman. “A single is fine, and we don’t need a cot, thank you.”

Someone give this kid an emmy. She hands over the key and George tactfully waits until they’re in the elevator to scowl at Ben. “That wasn’t--”

“I know, but if we’re really a couple, it doesn’t matter if we get a single or a double and really, I can sleep on the floor.”

George sighs. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, I’ll do that.”

“You were complaining about your back in first-class airplane chairs, I don’t think the floor at a hotel is going to do you any better. And also, just for a second, think about how often they clean their carpets.” 

The elevator dings and George starts out, luggage in hand and eyes on Ben once again. “Does that make you want to sleep on that floor any more?”

Ben mirrors that uncomfortable look from the plane: “We can share. When’s dinner?”

George checks his watch. Two and a half hours. He tells Ben as much, holding the door open for him and watching him heave his bag into the bed with a small bounce. The room is decent sized, likely larger than typical motels or cheaper chains, but George likes to indulge. Especially if this is to be his sanctuary for the next two days. There’s the usual king bed in the middle, a tiny wooden table with two half-comfortable looking chairs. Bedside tables with ornate lamps, soft carpeting, a coffee machine and mini-fridge. The difference is all in quality, George thinks. Everything here looks sleek, modern. There’s a large soaking tub with jets in the bathroom, shower with two heads on opposite sides. A neat line of toiletries, though George has certainly brought his own. 

He puts his own suitcase on the table for now, not feeling it all that necessary to crowd Ben’s personal space at the current moment. There’s wine carefully wrapped in his clothing that he’s very thankful hadn’t shattered. He catches Ben looking, amused smile on his lips once more. 

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to find something suitable for my family on such short notice. They’re…” he trails off as he checks the label, fully aware that he will be mocked for his choices, “snobs.” 

“The more you talk about them, the more I see it.” Ben crinkles his nose as he thinks, rifling through his bag before coming up with a selection of toiletries and a roll of clothing. “There’s Mary, your mother, Elizabeth, your sister, your brother Sam and his kids. And you said something about some women whose names I keep forgetting. And some family friends.”

George’s hands froze while putting all his now-useless tickets and travel things into his suitcase for safe-keeping. He’d nearly forgotten. Likely for some last-ditch effort, his mother had brought it upon herself to invite not only his former partner, but a flame from his youth. “Martha Custis and Sally Fairfax,” he sighs. “They’re old friends.”

“Should be nice to reconnect, yeah?”

“I don’t know yet.” Another half-understanding noise from Ben. He declares, soon enough, that since they’ve still two hours, he’s going to take a shower and freshen up a bit. George shrugs that off and lets him, staring at the firmly shut door to the bathroom and wondering, idly, what it means that Martha will be there. 

The end of their relationship was not exactly pleasant. Not that he blames her, of course. In fact, in retrospect, she was dignified and calm. If George had been in her position, he thinks wrathful and broken would be more his descriptors. He sits on the edge of the bed, putting his shoes off to change from something he did not travel into. 

He can hear the water beating against the tile of the bathroom, catch sight of the steam leaking out from under the door. 

It takes a lot of effort to not pay attention to the fact that Ben is naked on the other side of that door. That warm, tight, waist laid bare in the golden-cast light of the bathroom. It’s probably as smooth and well-cut as the rest of him, a perfect plane of pale skin, maybe marred by faint grooves where he got too tall too fast. Or freckled, or spotted, or just perfectly soft to the touch. 

All that thought process does is make his pants less comfortable. He changes quickly, if only to put his mind on actions instead of wild, baseless, and frankly incomprehensibly inappropriate fantasy. 

Ben takes a while in the shower, during which time George considers, twice, calling his mother, before settling on texting his sister that they have arrived at their hotel, and that they would be on their way within the next hour and a half. 

The only response is the checkmark, noting she saw his message soon after he sent it. He redresses for dinner, dark slacks and wine-colored button-down paired with a blazer. It would layer well with his thick peacoat and his black scarf. When Ben finally re-emerges, dressed and staring at the opposite wall with a stony determination, George is considering watches.

“We about ready?” Ben asks, grabbing his own jacket from the bed. George hums and holds up one of his options of watches deciding on it. He fits it around his wrist and gestures Ben forward. 

He holds out his hand, and Ben gets the message fairly quickly, pressing the back of his hand to George’s open palm. George is quick and efficient, focusing on the clasp of the second watch instead of the warm weight of Ben’s knuckles as they fit perfectly against him. Or the way he doesn’t want to let go. 

But he forces himself to, once the watch is secure. “If anyone asks, that was your Christmas gift from me.” 

Ben stares at it like it’s the first time he’s ever seen a wristwatch in his life. George clears his throat, “if anyone else asks, you got me that scarf.”

That looks is back on Ben’s face, incredulous and disbelief mixed with a mild sort of wry amusement. “I got you a scarf and you got me four thousand dollar watch?”

“Six.” He’s not entirely sure what on earth possesses him to correct Ben but he does. 

“Six what?”

Proprietary says he shouldn't say, but so what if he owns nice things. Ben ought to know that, he ought to know what he’s getting into. “The watch is six thousand dollars.”

“I don’t think I should be wearing this,” Ben admits, softer than he’s spoken in a very long while. But George can’t focus on that swelling of feeling in the pit of his throat. He doesn't want to tell Ben that he's standing next to a five-hundred dollar piece of luggage, or that he's going to be drinking a bottle of wine that's nearly a grand itself and that the low-end Rolex on his wrist is likely the least impractically expensive thing he'll encounter tonight.

“It’s fine, Ben. If I cared, I wouldn’t have put it on you.” He tries his best to sound reassuring, but Ben looks so uncomfortable, like he’s only suddenly aware of how out of place he is going to be. But… well… George looks at him again. The sweater-vest and tie is gone, instead he’s wearing a sleek-tailored blue shirt, dark pants, shined shoes. And even without all the fuss, George distinctly recalls the gorgeous man in the coffee shop chewing on a pen with his hand buried in his hair. “You’re going to be perfectly fine. If need be, you can feign illness and we can come back.” A pause. “Actually, we should come up with some code to do exactly that. A phrase.”

George straightens his tie and adjusts his cuffs. Once that’s done, he unloads the little packages from his suitcase, transferring them to the white paper bag, trimmed delicately with silver ribbons. 

Across the room, Ben lingers, every time George looks up for any purpose, even to ask him something, his hand snaps away from the watch on his wrist and he looks pointedly somewhere else. 

This isn’t going to work. 

There is no way this is going to work.

Ben flinches when George puts a hand on his shoulder, yanking himself back for just a moment. His face falls apologetically when George takes it back. “Spooked me, I guess,” he says, rubbing his arm. 

“My mistake,” is George’s response. 

His rented boyfriend for the evening is distracted enough to not respond. So George reminds him, softly, “If you’re uncomfortable with this…”

“I’m not, I’m… c’mon, we’re gonna be late and you said your mother doesn’t appreciate tardiness.” 

**_###_ **

By the time they manage through the semi-silent car ride, Ben picking at his cuticles the entire time, they’re twenty-six minutes early. Which is, for Mary Ball Washington, late. The young servant who opens the door doesn’t say a work before ushering them in, nodding towards the parlor where George has already picked up the shrill sound of his mother's voice. 

Piercing, it reminds him her screeching it up the stairs demanding he not be late for his riding lessors, or flute, or piano, or whatever task he was supposed to accomplish in order to show off in front of all her book club friends. 

The room goes silent when he steps into the doorway, Ben neatly at his elbow. Hardly a single face in the crowd is recognizable, but he certainly makes do. His mother looks older, but no less elegant and pristine. Her hawkish eyes rake over him, and he commends himself on repressing the shudder that rolls through him. Folded down onto the sofa, Elizabeth is no less delicate and fragile than she was in youth. Beside her, her husband and some small child that George isn’t sure if it’s Samuels or hers. 

Gossiping in the corner, he spots Sally, her hair twisted in an elegant updo that barely shivers when she cranes her neck back around. James must be somewhere else, with Samuel and Daniel and whatever other gaggle of children he can hear clattering about somewhere in the cavernous house. 

The last pair of eyes in the room, he can feel before he meets them. Cool and level, just as cutting as his mothers. He waits, just a half a breath, before he lets himself meet Martha’s eyes. She’s the only one who’s gaze he holds. Just for the briefest of flickers before he lets himself cross the threshold. 

“Mother,” he greets, extending his hand. Hers is cold and dry. “This is Benjamin Tallmadge, my partner.”

When she smiles, her teeth catch the low lights of the oversized and elegantly decorated Christmas tree crammed into the corner. “Benjamin, a pleasure.”

Whatever nerves had so thoroughly captured Ben in the hotel and in the car were gone. Snapped away by a single moment as he grins down at George’s mother and shakes her hand, gushing. “Mrs. Washington, I’ve heard so many things about you. I’m so glad we get to finally meet. Your home is stunning, ma’am.” He gestures over, “And you must be Elizabeth, correct? A pleasure.”

The part of George that remembers the sting of being cast out, boils in hot vindication when his mother’s jaw clenches. But it’s like she can smell it, turning back towards George with a simple, cutting: “I was just about to have Elizabeth call to inform you that dinner is nearly finished. We just weren’t sure if you still planned on attending.” 

“Oh,” George starts, watching Ben so perfectly work the room with introductions, accepting a pour of wine from Elizabeth’s husband and launching into some flawlessly pristine conversation. “I would not have missed it for a thing, mother.” 

Once they’d finished in the parlor, George shepherded Ben out to the back, where sure enough Daniel, Samuel, and James were pretending to moniter the froliking children, each had busy with either a cigarette or a whiskey. 

Sam had to be the first to spot them when the door clicked shut behind them. “There he is,” he called, fat hands waving as he spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. “George and his… well… his boy, eh?” 

“Partner,” George corrected, feeling a little icier than perhaps Sam deserved. “His name is Benjamin. Benjamin this is my brother, Samuel,” a gesture down the line, “Martha’s husband, Daniel, and Sally’s James. I believe some of the children out there belong to them as well.” 

“Benjamin certainly looks young enough to be your boy, huh Georgie?” Sam croons back, and on this burst of laughter, George can certainly tell that he’s had a touch too much already. His lips twitch down into a frown and he can almost feel the wave of ice roll in off Ben beside him.

But he doesn’t collapse into it, instead, he watches Ben stride forward, extending a hand. “I know, I practically look like a teenager, don’t I?”

He charms like crazy and George is left in the dust, blinking blankly at Ben as he makes Sam and James break into laughter at his own self-deprecation. He talks about how difficult it was to convince someone at a bar his ID wasn’t fake, about how difficult it was to convince George that no seriously, he’s in his mid-twenties. 

It’s incredible. Like watching an artist paint or something.

George drinks as he watches, hardly noticing Daniel slip in beside him. “You certainly managed to land a good one, George.” Daniel pauses, fingers sliding on his glass. Unlike Sam, who’s rumpled and drunk, and James who’s very obviously trying to pretend like he’s doing better than he is; Daniel is still impeccable. 

He always has been. Since high school, on the swim team, winning grins with dimples and dark hair brushed back. George wasn’t sure why he reviled him so much during that time. Maybe because of how much he wanted him, who knows. 

“I did,” he admits, fully honestly. Even if Ben wasn’t  _ his  _ by the nature of their relationship, George did manage to scoop the best possible candidate off of the internet. Really, he thinks, impressive. 

Daniel hums, thumb swiping along the rim of his glass like he’s deep in thought. His wedding ring catches the low light and George feels that swarm of raw, revolting, guilt. 

He waits, before he mentions: “I saw the wedding photos. Gorgeous. A wonderful choice of location.”

There’s silence between them again, as though George can’t ever be allowed to move on and forget his mistakes. His foolish, stupid, mistakes. Ben returns to his side, arm slipping gently around George’s waist. 

He’s a nice warm weight around him, and George folds his arm around his shoulders, ignoring James sneer, “Careful ‘round the children.”

Just a few more hours, he reminds himself. Just a few more hours. 

Dinner is brought to the table the moment his mother said it would. Set out on the finest china, with real silver and crystal. The wine he brought isn’t served, but George really didn’t expect his mother to allow anything from him on the table. 

The kids, of course, were brought to a separate table in the kitchen, watched by exhausted-looking kitchen staff so the adults could once again forgo responsibility in favor of silently glaring at one another across the table which, as it quite seems, is what is set to occur. 

Dinner is incredible, and Ben seems almost stunning, sitting beside him, that it could be that way. Of course it is, George thinks, bitterly, to himself. His mother didn’t cook it. 

The talk is slow, tedious. How is everyone, what are they up to. The topic circles around, because of course it does, to George and Ben. What does Ben do? Oh a student, how interesting, George is dating a  _ student.  _ Where are you from, Ben? Long Island, by the vineyards? No? A farmhouse, how quaint. Public school, how fascinating, what was it like? Tell us more about working hard to keep a scholarship at Yale while also working part-time to pay for books and rent. 

Ben takes the line of questioning on the chin, George does not. Each mortifyingly intrusive and inappropriate question makes him tense more and more and by the time his mother was on her third glass of wine, and James his forth, he thinks he may have nearly had a heart attack.

The thrumming in his veins was deafening, and then his mother went for the knees, that harpy-grin painted on her lips. “To think, it’s almost been, what? A decade and a half since you and Martha were engaged, George. By God, how time flies.” She puts her knife and fork to her dinner, as if that wasn’t a near-lethal blow.

Martha, who for all the grace of tact had not said a goddamn word to him all evening, opens her mouth to speak, but Elizabeth slips in beneath the tides. “That’s not Christmas talk, mother,” she says, in her gossamer-veil voice. “We don’t need to bring that up tonight. We’re just glad George is here, I know I haven’t seen my brother in ten years and it’s nice to have him here for Christmas.”

His mother’s mouth clicks back shut, lips pressed hard and firm and cold. “Right.” She says, sharp and hard. “We’re just glad for  _ George  _ to be here.”

Very suddenly, George wasn’t hungry anymore. 

**_###_ **

He had anticipated leaving immediately after dinner, but of course that hadn’t happened. Instead, he was trapped by this promise of coffee and cakes. Something absurd, but Ben he gently stroked down the length of his arm and blinked those ridiculously blue eyes up at him. 

“C’mon, George,” he practically purred, in just the perfect view of everyone without being overtly gauche. “One drink.” George recalls, again, the kiss. Oh, God how he just wants to stoop down and kiss him again, right there and right in front of everyone.

He doesn't though.

But Ben does pout, lower lip almost quivering.

A devilish minx that one is.

Which is how George found himself caught up in some dreary conversation, bored and not at all paying attention while Elizabeth gave Ben a tour of the family photos on display on the mantle. At least, he was busy being dreadfully bored until, across the room, Martha caught his eye again. Raising a brow, she tilted her head towards the hall and gestured for him to follow. 

His exit was smooth, as no one had bothered to pay much attention to the fact that he was there in the first place. By the time he reached the hall, however, she was gone. The only hint being the ajar door at the very end, the soft glow of the kitchen coming from beneath it. 

For a woman who has likely stepped foot in this kitchen twice, George’s mother made sure it was worthy of the front page of Better Homes and Gardens. Spacious, beautiful, the kind of thing that made people in stuffy apartments weep. There was a breakfast nook in the corner, just three chairs crowded around a table that serviced more bitter coffee and newspapers than it did light morning conversation. At it, Martha sat, staring towards the now-vacated kitchen. 

Apparently, the staff had finished and departed already, leaving the two of them in silence. 

“Do you remember sneaking in late at night and stealing  profiterole intended for your mothers book club meetings?”

George sits across from her, half-confused and mostly curious. “Yes, we got caught by Billy once, but he kept quiet and started leaving them where they were easier to reach. You liked the ones with chocolate best.” 

She hums, looking down now at the table. “I wouldn’t have come if Mary told me you were coming. Not because I didn’t want to see you, but because I didn’t want what happened at dinner to happen.”

“I was going to happen if you were there or not,” George says, flat and honest because, well, it’s the truth. Martha toys with her wedding ring. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, George. Please? I… was mad at you for a long time. Now I’m relieved. I loved you very much, George, and as horrifying as your mother can be, I’m glad she invited Daniel and I. I was… I don’t know, I was afraid that you would be alone still. But Benjamin is quite the charm, smart, funny, handsome. He’s exactly what I had hoped you would find, once I was finished hating you for, for, I don’t know what for anymore.” 

With a sigh, she drops her hands to the table and folds them. George finishes, foolishly, “Lying to you. For deceiving you. Using you.”

“Stop. I said I was finished being mad and I meant it, George. I’ve never seen you so happy than when you’re with Benjamin, George, I just wanted to… I didn’t want you to think that I came here with any ill intent. I know you and Daniel never got on well, and I know that our being here makes a difficult situation more difficult.” She pauses. 

“Right now,” George says, flat and honest once again, “you are making it much better, Em.”

At the use of his dated, aged, nickname for her, her lips quirk into a smile and he remembers why, two and a half decades ago, he thought he used to love her. He doesn’t get a chance to ask if she wants to go back to the party yet, because a throat clears from the doorway, making him jump nearly a goddamn foot. 

“George? Sorry to interrupt you guys, just, y’know.” Ben looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Martha takes her hands back from where George wasn’t even aware that he was covering them.

She smiles up at him, serene and content before standing and fixing her dress. “Right. I assume the talk is spreading already. Benjamin, it truly was a pleasure meeting you.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Ben’s shoulders immediately collapse. “I talked to her maybe once. I don’t know how much longer you want to stay, but I switched to water before dinner started and I’m seriously tempted to go back to wine. Or maybe hard liquor. Does your mom store vodka around here?”

George scoffs, low, and shakes his head. “If she does, it’s somewhere in the living room or close by her bedroom.” The humor melts fast, however, and he scrubs a hand over his face, exhausted. Ben, probably spurred on by the need to be so close during their little charade, squeezes his shoulders. 

“Should I pretend to be sick so we can go home?” 

He sighs again and shakes his head. “No, no. Let’s just tell them we’re out of here and head back to the hotel. We have a late flight so we’ll likely be subjected to some sort of breakfast arrangement, but I think we can manage to weasel out of that one.”

Ben went from squeezing to gently rubbing, following down the curve of his back in a way that is far too appealing. “Can we hide out here for a couple more minutes? Your brother is the biggest, most drunken douche I know, and the only tolerable person I’ve gotten to speak to had to go lay down because she started to feel sick.” 

“Betty is always sick,” George mumbles, tilting his head back. He gives himself a moment, then two, then three, with nothing but Ben’s gently rubbing of his back. “Alright. Let’s go call it a night.”

Getting out wasn’t difficult, George got the feeling once Elizabeth had departed and Sam was so obviously too drunk to care, it was much easier for his mother to care less about whether or not George was still there. She barely mustered a single huff in response to George and Ben’s thanks for having her. 

The car ride was almost as quiet, which honestly George would have much more preferred. But instead, Ben decided to talk instead. “So that was fun.” 

George couldn’t exactly help the scoff that built up and snapped out from the back of his throat. Fun. Yeah, sure. Fun. His grip on the wheel feels vice-tight, knuckles stark against his skin. 

“Your sister’s pretty cool.”

“She wasn’t always.”

And Ben shuts up again, staring out the window. He stays that way when they reach the hotel, all the way up to the room where George, somehow, has managed to fucking forget that they have a single bed. Because of course they have a single bed. Because nothing in this plan can go right at all.

He wanted some kind of vindication, some kind of wrathful glee that came from proving his mother wrong. But it didn’t come.

Instead, he’s fairly certain she’s won. What game she was playing, he really doesn’t know but he has certainly lost it.

The sigh he heaves might just be a little too strong, knocking the slow-burned rage from himself and just making him exhausted. “Maybe it’s not too late to just call for that cot,” he grumbles, headed for the phone to call down to the front desk easier. 

But Ben intercepts with his own pointed exhale. “Just sleep in the bed, George, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s massive, and you could probably do with not sleeping on some fold-out piece of shit.” 

It’s with that same air of finality that he grabs some clothes from his bag and slides back into the bathroom, giving George the opportunity to change as well. He does it quickly and efficiently, hanging his jacket and pulling on some of his warmer and more comfortable clothing. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and answers emails from his phone, convincing himself he’s not waiting for Ben to come out. Eventually though, he does, quietly shuffling to put his own clothes away and pad towards bed. 

“They were supposed to be awful to me,” George points out, right as Ben’s preparing to peel down the sheets of the bed and slide in. 

George doesn’t need to turn around to know that puzzled expression, head cocked and brow furrowed. Like a confused beagle who really doesn’t know if you threw the bone or not and if it’s the latter, why you would lie to him. He’d already seen it time enough in the last week of his life, he really doesn’t need it this time.

“George,” his voice is all soft and sweet, “they were.” 

His head hangs as he slots his fingers through his hair. “They were awful to you, Ben. That wasn’t what they were supposed to do. They were supposed to like you, that’s part of the reason why I selected  _ you  _ for this in the first place.” He gestures to the empty doorway, as if it would listen instead of the man behind him. “You’re a brilliant, educated, put-together handsome young man with a future and prospects and it somehow was still not enough for them. So they went after you and your past and your education and, I hadn’t anticipated that and I’m truly sorry.”

The bed dips under the weight of Ben sitting, obviously close to him. He doesn’t start at the warm hand on the curve of his shoulder. “George, it wasn’t that bad. I went to Yale on a scholarship that I still had to work part-time to survive. I was in classes with the brats of Fortune-500 CEOs and fifty other kids  _ just  _ like your brother.” Now would be the time for the hand to leave. To pull off and Ben to go to sleep.

Now would be the time for both of them to lie down, back to back, and sleep with a solid six inches between them.

Now would be the time.

But Ben didn’t stop and George didn’t move.

“Come get some sleep,” Ben whispers and George remembers, with another gut-wrenching clarity, that kiss on the doorstep. 

Except this time, when he turns around and pushes his lips against Ben’s, he tastes like desperation. Ben doesn’t push, he yields instead, bowing to George’s hand coming to cradle the small of his back and navigate the awkward position they’ve found themselves in. 

It’s hard to untangle without tearing his lips from Ben’s but they manage, Ben’s fingers dancing up and over the line of his chest, his breath coming in tiny gasps in the moment’s they’re forced to slide apart and then back together. 

Bens fingers dig into the muscles of his biceps, dragging him closer, dragging him over himself. His lips part the moment George flicks his tongue along them, letting George taste every inch of him, letting George touch him and claim and and have him just like this. It feels like a blink before Ben guides George over him, a breath before Ben has a leg wrapped around him and George’s hand is under his shirt to touch the white-hot bare skin of his hip. He splays his fingers over that flat stomach, feeling his muscles contract and tense whenever George moves closer.

“Let me,” Ben pants, heavy against George’s lips. “Please, let me help.” 

And George doesn’t know how. He just… he doesn't know what Ben means but he feels it in the very pit of his chest. “Yes,” he croaks, eyes drifting shut as he lets Ben guide him down onto his side. He hits the bed with a bit of a bounce, but Ben folds against him so perfectly.

Legs tangled together, lips pressed to lips. Tongue against teeth and hand against skin. It’s raw and hot and George pours himself over to it, he just lets it go. He lets Ben have him, just like Ben let George have him.

He hisses, when Ben’s delicate hand slips under the band of his pants, and he swears at the first firm stroke. 

“Shh,” Ben hushes, sliding away from the kiss and burying his face in the crook of George’s neck. “Let me take care of you.” 

The hand not curling around him makes its way up George’s shirt, tracing the planes of his chest under deft fingers find his nipple and God, Ben plays him like an instrument. Just the perfect flick on his thumb in time with the twist of his wrist. Pinches and tugs with teeth at his pulse-point and George is gone. 

Distantly, he’s certain those noises are his own, low and rumbling right from his chest, but he can’t summon the will to make them stop. Ben is too good and George is absolute putty in his hands. He doesn’t realize until after it’s done that he’s clinging to him. George’s fingers dig into Ben’s arms, holding him close and tight as if the moment George loosens his grip Ben will slip away too.

“C’mon,” Ben goads, in a soft murmur against George’s throat. “Let go for once.” 

And it’s not long until he does. Shuddering and gasping, he finds that release absolutely clinging to Ben in every way he can think to be. He keeps his eyes closed as he melts back into the bed, Ben tucking him back away before attempting to unwind himself.

George only grunts and keeps holding onto him, which earns him a half-amused huff. “Let me go wash my hands, or I’m wiping this on you.” 

Conceding, he lets him go. 

Once he’s heard the running of the sink cut out and felt the bed dip under Ben’s weight again, be immediately reaches for him, hand sliding down his stomach to cup his half-hard crotch. 

Ben scoffs and delicately pulls him away. “Go to bed, George. You can take care of this,” he pauses to put the hand back, if only for a moment, “in the morning if you want.”

He grunts again, but by the time Ben says anything else, he’s out. 

**_###_ **

It is absolutely fair to say that that had been both the best and worst dream of George’s life. But he woke up with Ben curled up checking his messages on his side of the bed, the whole distance between them sleep-warm. And he was absolutely mortified. 

Surely that was a dream. Ben touching him, purring about taking care of him with his hand down his pants. God, he’s pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

He rolls over with a groan, burying his face back into the pillows and huffing, “what time is it?”

“Almost eight-thirty,” Ben says, with an audible click of him setting his phone down. He moves closer, bed protesting slightly, and rests a hand on the small of George’s back. And George is suddenly no longer as sure as he was that last night was a dream.

Ben kisses the space behind his ear and that certainly plummets to nothing. “I really want to suggest an early morning fuck to compensate for last night, but unfortunately I don’t think the condoms I packed would fit you, and I’m going to bet you didn’t pack any.”

“I did not, in fact.”

George is not fairly certain that last night did in fact happen. He shifts so he can actually look at Ben, drink him in with his hair askew and his cheeks flushed with sleep stil. “I think we can make do,” Ben concedes, leaning in to kiss him. Which he does, nice and slow and sweet and utterly confusing. 

“Ben,” he warns, but he doesn’t have the time to construct anything else to say about that. Both phones ping almost at once, some little rapid alert that has George reaching over and Ben rolling over in the same moment.

And his stomach hits the floor as the news banner scrolls across his notifications.

**MASSIVE STORM DUMPS FEET OF SNOW ON NEW YORK CITY: ALL FLIGHTS CANCELLED**

It stares at him, before he gets the alert telling him that yes, his flights have indeed been cancelled. 

Ben looks devastatingly still. 

George reaches over him with a sigh, ignoring all the once-devastatingly scorching points of contact between them and picks up the phone.

The front desk picks up immediately. 

“Hello, I’d like to book this room for a while longer, if that would be acceptable. Yes… for, I would say, another two days. Just to be safe. Yes… of course. Thank you.” He hangs up and dumps himself back into the bed.

“I only packed for the two days,” Ben points out. “I have last nights outfit, the plane outfit, and this. I was definitely going to re-wear one and hope you didn’t notice.” 

“I probably wouldn’t have,” George concedes, “and don’t worry we can.... It’ll be fine.” He clears his throat. “And obviously, well, we can do something about your clothes.” He pauses as he calls the airline, quickly seeing the fastest reschedule that could be done.

Of course, they don’t know at this moment. But they’ll do their best. Call back later, thank you, sir. 

He hangs up on them, feeling as sour as he’s sure he looks. Ben’s moved to lay on his back, phone resting on his stomach as he digs the heel of his hand into his eyes. George watches, clears his throat. “I think it’s needless to say I’ll certainly be reimbursing you for this time as well."

Ben shakes his head, lips pulling into this ridiculous smirk. And already, George feels that surging of warmth he’d felt well, plenty of times before. Watching Ben charm rooms, watching him study in that cafe. Watching him… just watching him. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how perfect he is. Not just for his family, no, perfect for him. How easily Ben slot right into his life and his schedule, how easily he earned Elizabeth’s trust. And what Martha said rung in his ear.

It was stressful, it was awful, and he hated every minute but… well… Ben. Just… Ben.

His smirk grows, and he rolls onto his side, reaching a hand out and curling it under his chin.

“The two days is too much already, I promise, George. And really, I can already think of a few things we could do to pass the time. And maybe one or two ways you can pay me back instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is Late!
> 
> Hit Me Up to talk about BenWash, Ben/Alex, Whatever You Want, and Raccoons, at [tumblr](tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com)  
> or scream into the endless void!
> 
> Also:   
> \-- George did have a brother named Sam  
> \-- I couldn't remember Sally's husbands name and didn't care enough to google it  
> \-- Rolex's are stupid expensive and I can't actually believe that there are watches that cost six thousand dollars but here we fucking are  
> \-- George let Ben keep the watch. It looks good on him.


End file.
